Glimpse of Reality
by Eleri McCleod
Summary: Most people choose to forget their brush with the Winchesters and the impossible. But for one survivor, it takes tracking down the past to find a course for the future.
1. Chapter 1

TITLE: Glimpse of Reality

AUTHOR: Eleri McCleod

EMAIL: elerimc (at) gmail (.) com

STATUS: complete

CATEGORY: drama

PAIRINGS: none

SPOILERS: Route 666, anything through mid season 3 is fair game

SEASON: 1 & 3

SERIES/SEQUEL INFO: none

CONTENT LEVEL: T, 15+, FR15, take your pick

CONTENT WARNINGS: none

SUMMARY: Most people choose to forget their brush with the Winchesters and the impossible. But for one survivor, it takes tracking down the past to find a course for the future.

DISCLAIMER: Supernatural and its characters are the property of Eric Kripke, Kripke Enterprises and Warner Brothers. I'm just borrowing them for a little while and will return them unharmed. No copyright infringement is intended.

ARCHIVE: FF . net, Supernaturalville, LJ, any others please ask

AUTHORS' NOTES: I've wondered for a while now what happens to the people Dean and Sam leave behind once the Big Bad has been dispatched. That's where this story started. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. Huge hugs go to Lynette, my wonderful beta. All the extra mistakes were just for you, lady! This story is complete and will be posted in two parts. I'll be sticking to my normal posting schedule of one part a week. Thanks for reading! As always, any and all feedback is appreciated.

* * *

It was supposed to be a simple verification of death case, a milk run to rule out a suicide that wasn't covered in the policy. A one car accident always raises eyebrows in the eyes of insurance companies. They just love to triple and quadruple check everything before shelling out a payoff, no matter what the official cause of death was deemed. Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. Those miserly penny-pinchers provide over fifty-percent of my annual investigative income. Not that I really need it.

Working a case has always entailed a bit of legwork, but I had no idea how many legs this one would sprout.

I found Ron Stubbins and Charlie March, friends of the deceased, by the docks, a well-worn checkers board sitting comfortably between the two men. It appeared to be a daily routine. They'd been surprised that yet another insurance agent had been sent out to investigate Jimmy Anderson's death. Wasn't I a little late? The two men had been there over a week ago. Sweet ride they'd had, too. I was a little stunned, but didn't let it show. I had too much experience lying through my teeth to let a couple of unexpected questions shake my calm. What can I say? I was always a quick study. The men gave me all the information I needed for my case as well as a whole lot more they didn't know they were giving. Ah, the innocence of ignorance. I missed that. Sometimes.

Ron wanted to know if I needed more information on the big black truck. You know, the one no one's ever seen? Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. Charlie didn't look amused. Those two men had been interested in it after all. Didn't we work for the same company? I gave them the standard line about private investigators and how insurance companies hired these investigations out to save on expenses. They laughed, thinking I was joking I guess. I didn't. I rarely joke about my work, as mind numbing as it is sometimes. Then they hit me with the coup de gras - were the other three insured by the same company? There were three others? All vehicular deaths? Sort of, they'd said. Unfortunately, sort of and I never had gotten along too well.

My gut was telling me this was one of those cases I needed to get out of. Now. Immediately. No, make that yesterday. But I asked the question anyway. I just had to ask. Was it a black 1967 Chevy Impala? The sweet ride. Yep. Cherry condition, too. Kind of unusual car for company men, right?

As soon as I left the checkers club I called the company. No, they hadn't sent someone else. No, there wasn't a concurrent investigation. And why was I asking anyway? So I finished my investigation, filed my report - full of completely sane conclusions and nothing that would compromise my pay - billed the client and drove home. When I got there I poured myself two fingers of single malt and set about reburying the memories that had pushed up from their coffin.

Only this time they refused to stay buried.

I was eight when I saw it, and him, still innocent, still full of joy and life. I'd disobeyed Father and taken my new doll down to the gate at the beginning of the driveway. It wasn't safe, my parents told me, but never why. I just wanted to show Nora the cars as they drove by, the families together on a sunny Saturday afternoon. My mom never needed to know I took one of the special dolls out of the house. It would be our secret.

That's when it rolled past. It was a great black beast of a car, growling like Fitz did when he didn't like someone. I hugged Nora tighter to my chest, her blond hair soft where it touched my chin. Something about the car held my attention, wouldn't let my trembling legs run me to the safety of the arched entry I'd known all my life. A small face peered out of the passenger window at me, a boy, maybe a few years older. Father always said I had an active imagination, but I just knew that boy was staring right back at me, his eyes holding mine as the black beast continued down my street. I waved. He didn't wave back.

That was the night my parents were killed. That was the night my world was turned upside down and left to dangle in the wind.

Shaking my head once, hard, I downed the alcohol, wincing as it burned my mouth and throat. I stalked to the file cabinet, the uncomfortably familiar nerves filling my gut. Kneeling, I unlocked the bottom drawer and it opened with a squeal. The folder inside was packed full to overflowing, stained, creased and hadn't been opened in almost five years. I'd stopped my useless obsession, determined to move on, to get on with my life – such as it was – and pretend there was nothing out there besides what I could see and feel.

Apparently nothing wasn't done with me just yet.

I poured another finger's worth and downed it just as fast. Whoever had dubbed it liquid courage was a lying bastard. All the scotch did was lay a haze of heat over my skin. Courage was nowhere in sight.

But I flipped the folder open anyway, the yellowed newspaper clippings fluttering in the wake of air.

"Murder at Stanwick Estate."

"Eight Year Old Heiress Cleared."

"Stanwick Heiress Once Again in Psych Ward."

"Heiress Released: Says It's in the Past Now."

"Stanwick Heiress Withdraws From Society - Old Problems Returning?"

"Vultures," I mumbled, staring at the familiar headlines. Ten years they'd made my life a living hell, even after I'd learned to shut up, to pretend I hadn't seen what had killed my parents. That I hadn't seen the stranger save my life. It took me four years of weekly counseling and in-patient therapy to figure out no one was going to believe me. So I stopped trying to convince anyone. I told the therapists what they wanted to hear, played the fully adjusted teen and when I turned sixteen, became the temperamental heiress everyone expected me to be. All the while I did my own research, scoured the newspapers and then the internet for mysterious deaths, created my file and an extensive list of creepy-crawlies to keep even the most hardened person in a permanent state of hysteria.

But on my nineteenth birthday everything changed. I'd had no family left after my parents were killed and their wills had given my guardianship over to my mom's closest friend. Aunt Cecelia had been a good friend to my mom, but as a guardian she'd been sorely lacking. I'd have been better off with the housekeeper, at least she had been in the same country as me. Aunt Cece cared for me, I know that, but then she died as well and left me alone, truly alone, with no one to care one way or another if I lived or died. Somewhere along the line I'd become a ghost, a living ghost who drifted through life, making no meaningful contact and absolutely no impact on anything or anyone around me. All I had was an independent fortune that ran itself and an ability to piece together seemingly unrelated bits of information. Oh, and I could lie my ass off. Helpful skill that.

I flipped the pages slowly, finally flipping past my life in newsprint, and saw my own handwriting, orderly rows of neat block script listing dates, names and places. The articles were filed in chronological order, going back to before I was born. Each death was one I had no doubt was from something beyond the natural order, like the ghost no one believed me about all those years ago. More pages turned under my hand, eyes skimming the words.

I'd given up all of this, forged my own life somewhere between the mayhem of the supernatural and the empty chaos of being the Stanwick Heiress. Now I was just Gabriel Jones, private investigator and all around average person. My days were filled by photographing cheating spouses and investigating deaths for insurance companies. The most exciting thing that happened to me on a regular basis was deciding what disguise to use. My flaming red hair and deep blue eyes were a combination too memorable for surveillance work.

My fingers stroked slowly over the picture of the car, the big black beast that had so frightened me as I stood at the gate, clutching Nora to me. I'd looked at hundreds of photos to figure out what kind of car it was and knew the picture did little justice to the reality. 1967 Chevrolet Impala - a solid steel altar to pure testosterone. I had to admit it was my kind of car. And it had appeared over and over in my nightmares for years, the rumbling growl and the face staring out of the window my constant companions.

I swirled the glass, amber liquid glistening in the single light I'd turned on. The Impala stared back at me, daring me, pushing me. Did I want to open that door again? Was it worth the sleepless nights and the hours of endless searching? Hell, was Jimmy Anderson's death even unnatural? All I had to go on were the rumors of a mysterious black truck, four seemingly unrelated deaths and two insurance agents who were anything but. It was slim, practically paper thin, but every instinct I had told me I wasn't wrong.

I threw back the shot and stood, leaving the file spread all over the table. Guess I was headed back to Cape Girardeau tomorrow.

* * *

The little sleep I'd gotten was long since used up by the time I hit the town. It had taken all of half an hour to come up with a cover story and another half hour to create my new image. Long blond wig, brown contacts and skillfully applied makeup would keep anyone from recognizing me as the private investigator from the previous day. Never before had I been so grateful for keeping the Camaro tuned up and ready to drive, despite the fact I took her out maybe twice a year.

And so Gabby Taylor roared into town, windows rolled down and AC/DC blaring from the suped-up radio. Nothing like a little sensory overkill to divert attention exactly where I wanted it. I gave myself this one trip to satisfy curiosity. If nothing came out of it I'd hightail it back to Chicago and bury that damn file back in the filing cabinet. But if I was right?

Well, I'd swallow that round when it became necessary.

I spent the afternoon spinning a tale of a classic car enthusiast who'd been told by a friend of a friend that a mint condition Chevy had been spotted in town. All I wanted was a few pictures, maybe a little bit of the car's history. I had quite the book started. A few people remembered seeing the Impala and not much else, but I hit paydirt when I dropped into the local newspaper office.

"Cassie Robinson?" A polite smile and nod confirmed my guess. "I'm Gabby Taylor," I said, layering deep south into my voice and brandishing my camera. "I hear there's a '67 Impala around here I need some pictures of. I was told you're the lady who can get me in contact with the owner."

She was good, I'll give her that, but not good enough to hide the split second of panic from me. "No, I'm sorry. I don't think so. I'm not a big car buff. I can't tell a Ford from a Ferrari."

"It's a Chevy, actually." I dug the photo out of my pocket. "Looks like this. I just want a few snapshots with the owner and maybe a quote or two to go with them."

"I'm sorry, Ms. Taylor, was it?" I nodded, forcing a disappointed frown to my face. "I can't help you."

"Well, shoot. You were my best bet." I grabbed a pad from her desk and wrote one of my numerous work numbers down along with my name of the week. "If you do happen to remember the ride, give me a call. Cars like that are few and far between."

She smiled, just a little brittle around the edges, and took the slip of paper. "I doubt I'll remember anything, but I'll let you know if I do."

"Thanks." I left with a wink and a smile, letting her make what she would of it. Pushing out into the sunshine, I made my way back to the Camaro, forcing my face to stay neutral. The Impala had been here, Cassie Robinson's assertions aside, and she knew the owners. I'd have bet a good portion of my parents' estate on it.

I slid into the driver's seat and blew out a breath. What the hell was I going to do now? I hadn't planned this far ahead, maybe subconsciously hoping I'd be wrong. I could forget about it. They obviously didn't want to be found. And notice the easy assumption of 'they' and not 'he.' That's one giant ass leap of logic for you, Gabriel. I'd seen two people that day in the car, the driver and the kid in the passenger seat. There might have been a third in the back, but I had no way of knowing.

I drove back to Chicago, stopping for gas and food along the way, but I couldn't have answered a single question about the trip if someone had held a gun to my head. By the time I pulled into the garage at the estate, I knew what I was going to do. It probably wasn't the best thing for my peace of mind and the simple shell that was my life, but I was doing it anyway.

I spent the next week sequestered at the estate, letting business calls go to voicemail where Gabriel Jones told everyone she was on vacation and would return in a month. I scanned, typed and reorganized every piece of information in the file into geographical location instead of chronological order. The entire US was simply too big to hunt for one little car, as distinctive as it was. I had to take that haystack and turn it into a shovel's worth. Eventually, I settled on Illinois, Indiana, Ohio and Missouri. I broke it down even further by pattern and whether the deaths seemed to have stopped. There were more than enough entries, on both sides, in my new database to get me some fresh information. I planned out a route that would wind me through the four states, keeping to two lane highways and back roads as much as possible. I figured people who wanted to stay under the radar would steer clear of the Interstates and their heavily patrolled lanes.

Finally finished planning, I stared across the map laid out on my parents' ginormous dining table, over the printouts, highlighters and my laptop scattered along its gleaming surface and took one last deep breath.

Tomorrow I would hit the road in search of one very specific Impala.

* * *

After that first unbelievably long month of road trip research, I kept it to one week out of every four. I couldn't let myself become obsessed as I'd been as a teenager. I had clients and a life, such as it was, with a few people whom I could conceivably call friends but were really barely more than acquaintances. I owed it to them to at least pretend I wasn't some freak out on a mission to find the impossible.

I still had no idea what I would do if I actually did manage to find the car and the boy who didn't wave back. I had no proof that he was still with the car. I only had my own instincts, which had been honed through four years of investigative work and studying people since I was eight. My database grew at an exponential rate. Sometimes the Impala would make its presence known, but most times it was nowhere to be found. I added new entries as articles and obituaries appeared and checked off ones that seemed to be solved.

It took over a year to work my way through the database and when I was finished I had cobbled together a story that even Stephen King would have been hard pressed to come up with. Hell, after everything I'd seen, everything I'd lived through as a child, I was hard pressed to believe what I was watching unfold underneath my own eyelids.

I had a list of aliases longer than my arm, a list of people who were alive because of the holders of those aliases, and yet another list of potential places those aliases might crop up in my four state radius. With a sigh, I scanned the entries, slightly daunted by the sheer number. Remembering that haystack I'd thought I'd whittled down, I had to laugh at my ignorance. This was more like throwing darts blindfolded and expecting to hit the bullseye when I didn't even know which direction the board was.

I clicked the first entry on the list and read through the news reports and my meticulous notes. My latest insurance case was only contracted through the end of the week. I could be in Ohio Saturday morning.

Rearing back, I let the dart fly.

Eight months later I hit the bullseye.

* * *

cont.


	2. Chapter 2

** See Part 1 for disclaimer and story details

Author's note: Thank you to everyone who sent such wonderful comments about this. You make my day with each and every one of them. Special thanks and grilled cheese on toast go to Lynette for her mad beta skills and her encouragement. As always, any and all feedback is appreciated.

* * *

Part 2

* * *

There it was.

All of my searching and planning, the reams and reams of paper, the countless hours of internet time, the megabytes of files. I'd actually started to believe I'd never find it. And now there it was sitting right in front of me, gleaming black and chrome in the sunlight. Almost two years I'd been searching. Two freaking years of jack squat results, being anywhere from hours to months behind, trying to second guess a set of brothers who were even better at BSing their way into and out of situations than I was.

"Holy crap."

I reached out automatically, fingers shaking as they met the passenger window. I owned a classic car. I knew the unwritten rules. So why was I touching a man's car without his permission? Obvious death wish aside, I just had to. Nothing could have stopped me at that point. The glass was warm under my fingers, warm and smooth and real, reflecting my natural hair, short cropped red, and mirrored Oakleys. They were here.

"What are you doing to my car?"

I spun, the pissed off voice right behind me, and stumbled back into the Impala. My mouth opened to issue a smart ass comment of my own, but nothing came out. Seeing the car was nothing to seeing them, him, up close. He was taller than I thought he'd be.

"Why are you messing with my car?"

The question didn't merit a smile, but damned if my lips didn't twitch upward. "Dean Winchester." The two men exchanged looks before turning back to me. "Which makes you Sam."

"And you are? Since we're getting all familiar." Dean recovered quick, I'll give him that. "You're still on my car."

I searched his features and found the boy in the man's face, the smirk not hiding it from my eyes. "I'm Gabriel Stanwick," I said, the sound of my real name in the light of day strangely comforting. "And you saved my life when I was eight. Rather, your dad did." They looked at each other again, eyebrows raised in almost identical expressions. It was seriously cute.

"You're going to need to refresh my memory a little. Dad helped a lot of people." His eyes scanned my face, much as I'd done with him, obviously trying to place it without any luck. I pushed off the Impala and stripped off my sunglasses, staring him full in the face, ignoring Sam's indrawn breath. I've gotten that reaction plenty of times over the years so I don't know if it was the sudden shock of the blue of my eyes against the fiery red of my hair or if Dean recognized my face without the Oakleys. "Chicago. The antique doll. You waved to me."

Sam eyes bounced from me to his brother, face furrowed in confusion. "You do know her?"

"No, I don't. But I remember her."

"You didn't wave back."

Dean smiled, eyes crinkling just a little at the corners. "Call me antisocial. How'd you find us?"

I shrugged, slipping the sunglasses back on. I don't do sun well. "Do you really want to talk out in the parking lot?"

For the third time, they exchanged a look. Apparently they didn't need words to communicate like common mortals. Theirs was a bond I'd never had, never felt. For a brief moment jealousy thrummed through my chest before I squashed it back out of existence. It wasn't their fault I was alone in the world.

"Your place or ours?"

I didn't bother trying to keep the laugh inside. The information I'd gathered on Dean hadn't lied. The flirt and charm was like breathing to him. "Yours is probably better. It's closer."

We walked the twenty feet to their motel room where I was able to ditch the sunglasses. Sam gestured toward the chair by the table and sat on the edge of one of the beds, his brother leaning back against the dresser.

"So, Chicago?" Sam asked, hands resting on his knees. "When was this?"

"1991. Dad was tracking a series of murders that had nothing in common except the method of death." Dean met my eyes, obviously hesitant to speak.

I spared him the concern. I'd made peace with what happened that night long ago. "The victims' hearts were ripped from their chests. Every person in every house. I was the only survivor."

"Wow. That's, uh, that's... Just wow."

"Sam." Dean glared his brother into silence before digging up a leather notebook out of the canvas duffel at his side and flipping through the pages quickly. "Here it is. Dad had accounts dating back to 1912. He thought the spirit was a girl named Savannah Cavenaugh, murdered by her plantation owner father in 1910, Georgia. Heart ripped out. All records showed she'd been cremated. Dad couldn't figure out how she was still around and moving from place to place."

Sam looked from me to Dean, eyes wide with interest. "So what was it? I mean, there obviously wasn't a body to burn. There had to be something for her to latch onto."

"She had a doll," I said. The feel of that soft blond hair rubbing against my chin shuddered through me like a phantom. "Porcelain face and hands. It must have been in the room when he killed her. There were small, dark spots all over the stuffing under the clothes."

"Her blood."

I nodded. "It had to be. My parents bought it at an antique store in Atlanta for me. They were killed not twenty-four hours after they brought it back to the house."

"I don't remember this." He took the notebook from his brother and scanned the page quickly. "Where was I?"

"In the backseat, asleep. Dad wanted to check the house's outer security during the day. All of the deaths had occurred at night so he figured it was safe to bring us along for the ride."

Dean's matter of fact tone sparked something in my gut, that same instinct that told me when someone was lying to me. "You were his look out." It sounded vaguely accusatory even though I hadn't meant it that way.

"Guilty," he said, one eyebrow lifting above the clear hazel of his eye. "Dad couldn't believe you were just standing there at the gate with the doll. He thought he'd have to search the whole house for it."

Sam looked up from the page, shaking his head. "How did he ever put it all together? I mean, that was a one in a million thread to find."

"Dad was the master."

Smiling a little at the undisguised pride in Dean's tone, I beat back yet another bubble of jealousy. "Master or not, I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for him."

Dean lost his smile at that. "Speaking of impossible threads, how did you find us? And why were you looking in the first place? I can't imagine it was to talk about the old days."

"Honestly, I don't know why I tracked you down. Call it one of those irrepressible urges." They didn't look like they believed me, but I didn't really care. It wasn't like we were ever going to meet again, right? "I didn't look for you, by the way. I looked for the car."

Stunned was too understated a word to describe their faces, but it was the one word that came to me at that moment. "You tracked the Impala?"

"Yes."

Matching groans filled the room at my simple answer. Dean rubbed his right hand over his face, the silver ring flashing in the light from the window. "Please tell me it's not that easy."

"Easy? You're kidding, right? I've been on this over two years and I have the benefit of knowing the truth, what circumstances will draw you to an area." I pushed up to my feet, a sudden restlessness filling me. "Trust me, nothing about this was easy." I'd meant it in the purely physical research sense, but something else slipped into the words without my permission.

Sam must have heard it as well because his face softened, mouth and eyes holding sympathy without pity. "I'm sorry he couldn't save your parents."

There was nothing I could say to that, so I simply returned his gaze.

"Gabriel?" Dean's voice brought me back around to face him. "What did happen that night? Dad would only say the job was done. He wouldn't tell me how he got hurt."

"Dean," Sam said, tone holding a note of censure.

"It's okay, Sam, really." I'd dealt with my parents' death long ago. The knowledge was a dull ache, it always would be, but I held no animosity toward the man who had tried to save them. "I was always a light sleeper, woke up at the smallest of noises. It drove my parents crazy, actually. But I never did figure out what it was specifically that woke me that night.

"I went down to the Red Room to get my new doll, even though I knew my mom would be mad. The dolls were antiques and were supposed to stay in the cabinet at night. But when I got to the room, there was a man standing there."

"Our dad?"

I smiled, remembering his face as he looked at the cabinet stuffed full of antiques. "Yeah. He was just standing there, staring at all of those dolls, kind of lost looking. My mom had been collecting them most of her life. I guess he wasn't expecting so many of them."

Dean snorted, lips lifting at the corners. "He must have been pissed."

"And you must have been scared out of your mind," Sam said, shaking his head.

"Actually, I wasn't. At least not yet. I don't know why, but I wasn't afraid of John. He just looked over at me, smiled. You know, this really gentle smile and said my new doll had something wrong with it and that he was here to fix her." They exchanged another one of those speaks a thousand words looks, but didn't comment so I continued. "Here was this stranger in my house and I stood there like an idiot, doing nothing. I should have been running upstairs screaming.

"He asked me which one was my new doll, but before I pointed her out, it got really cold in the room. John told me to run and he pulled this metal rod out of nowhere." I'd told the story so many times as a child that I'd become inured to it. Yet this telling, to these two men, was different. Dean and Sam would believe every word I said. I couldn't see the sun shining through the motel windows anymore. I felt the cold washing over my skin, goosebumps breaking over every inch of my body. "That's when she appeared. He swung the rod at her and she vanished. But he'd hit the lamp behind her as well. It shattered. For a second all I could hear was the sound of glass hitting the floor. John was talking to me, but I couldn't understand him. She reappeared and threw him across the room, turned to look at me. I got scared then.

"John ran over and hit her with the rod again. By that time I could hear my parents shouting, running down the stairs. John asked about the doll, really frantic, but I was too scared to answer. Dad practically flew into the room. He saw me and John and just freaked. Mom grabbed me, started dragging me out of the room. I tried to tell them about the girl, but they wouldn't listen. Dad threw one of the other lamps at John and he ducked behind the sofa. Then Dad started screaming. Loud, awful screams. The girl, the ghost, she reached into Dad's chest and tore his heart out right through his ribcage."

"Jesus," Sam muttered, yanking me out of the past with its blood and pain and back into the motel and sunshine.

I blinked, meeting his subdued gaze. "I guess Mom lost it then because she dropped me and ran over to Dad. John yelled at me to get the doll and bring it to him. He tried. He really tried to save my mom, but the ghost was too quick. She was dead by the time I got him the doll. I don't know how he kept her away from me and started the fire at the same time. The ghost burned up right in front of me."

My heart started to settle, the memories returning to just memories once again. Dean and Sam were silent, either not knowing what to say or knowing there was nothing to say. A smile lifted my lips out of nowhere. "John picked me up, took me to front door, told me to stay there. He came back with a blanket and the phone. He dialed 911 and told me to ask for help, to not move until they arrived. I don't think I'll ever forget the look on his face when he said he was sorry. And then he walked away."

Silence fell when I stopped speaking. We stared at one another across the short distance of the motel room. My goosebumps had faded, the air conditioning no longer the chill of a haunted night.

"He just left you there?" Sam asked, finally breaking the stillness. "At the house? Alone?"

Dean shot him a glare, face darkening with an old emotion. "What was he supposed to do, Sam?"

"He could have dropped her off at the hospital or the police department. She was just a little girl."

"I was Gabriel Stanwick," I corrected him before he could gather steam. "Of the Chicago Stanwicks and my parents had just been murdered. He knew no one would believe an eight year old who said a ghost killed her family. He made the right choice."

Shifting his weight on the dresser, Dean smiled a thanks in my direction. "We packed up and left Chicago that night. I think we drove two days straight before he finally stopped."

"I remember." Apparently willing to let it rest, Sam returned my gaze steadily. "He was pretty torn up for a while after that night. I think it was the first time I saw him like that."

I didn't want to ask, but I had to have confirmation. I knew the conclusions I'd come to from my research and their own words seemed to agree. "John died, didn't he?"

Dean looked down for a long moment, face darkening instantly. His brother glanced at him then nodded once.

"I'm sorry. I'll never forget what he did for me."

I stared at them, their acceptance of their insane lives suddenly filling me with… I don't know what it was. Anger wasn't right, neither were curiosity or astonishment. But I was filled with something and it hit my gut with every beat of my heart. It churned in my stomach until I wanted to hurl. They had each other. They had family. Why would they risk that for strangers who would never think of them again? How could they do that? "Why? Why do you do this? I know you've been injured. Both of you. Your dad is dead. Is there some kind of award for the most monsters killed in a lifetime that I don't know about?" They looked at each other, clearly uneasy with the abrupt turn of the conversation. Hell, I was uneasy with it, but that didn't stop me from expecting an answer. I waited until Dean shrugged one shoulder, face smoothing into assurance and a strange sort of peace.

"It's not about the things we kill. It's about the people we save."

Sam's mouth quirked up slightly into something I couldn't call a smile, his eyes never leaving his brother as I looked back and forth between them. And as suddenly as I'd been filled with that unidentifiable emotion it drained away, leaving me empty and more than a little ashamed with instant belated understanding. I was one of the people they'd saved, one of those who was supposed to move on and never think of them again. What had I done with their gift? Absolutely nothing. I might as well have died that night along with my parents for all the impact I'd had on any other human since. I had no one, had made no connections, had made no effort to make any. I was a ghost in a living shell.

I didn't want to be a ghost anymore.

Without a word, I walked to the door and flung it open. I heard them call my name as they followed, but couldn't speak. My laptop was right where I'd left it on the backseat of the Camaro and it only took moments to drag the case by its strap across the seat and onto my shoulder. Dean and Sam hovered just outside of the motel door, obviously wondering if I'd lost it. I wanted to reassure them, to tell them I was fine, more than fine, actually. I was better than I'd been since the day my parents had been killed, but I still couldn't get a sound out. I moved past them back into the room, already pulling the computer free.

"Gabriel? What's going on?"

As the familiar boot up screen flashed, I smiled, my lips stiff. "Fifteen years of work." I grabbed one of the flash drives from the case and set it into the USB slot. It only took a couple of clicks and my database was copying itself onto the drive. As the progress bar quickly darkened, my smile relaxed, starting to feel real. Looking up, I saw them staring at me with raised eyebrows. Why they'd let me go slightly crazy on them without making more of an attempt to stop me, I'd never know, but I was glad of it nonetheless. "No one believed me when I told them what happened. I was a kid who'd seen something awful. Of course it couldn't be the truth." The file transfer completed and I yanked the drive out. "I finally stopped trying to convince everyone. But I knew what I'd seen that night."

"Adults have a hard time believing other adults about the truth, even when it's right in front of them," Sam said quietly. I knew what he was trying to do and it was sweet, really. The effort wasn't necessary, but I appreciated it anyway.

I held the drive out to Dean and he took it carefully, fingers curling over the small device, swallowing it whole. "I'm not a hunter. I can't do what you do and I don't even want to try. But maybe you can use this to save some people."

He looked from his closed fist to my face, his hazel eyes both understanding and searching. "Fifteen years of work, huh?" he repeated.

I nodded, peace filling me. Maybe this was what I'd needed, what my whole life was pushing me toward. I'd never felt so calm, like I was right where I was supposed to be for the very first time. That same calm told me this particular moment was over. Our lives had never been meant to cross for any length of time. "Take care of yourselves." They nodded back, as if unsure what to say to the whirlwind of my entry and exit, maybe expecting me to stay for some reason.

I made it to the door, laptop over my shoulder, and had it opened before one final thought hit me. Turning, I took a long moment to study their faces. Unless fate chose to be even more capricious than normal, I'd never see them again. Sam's face held a smile, both wistful and content at the same time. His green eyes were filled with shadows, worries and hurts I couldn't even imagine, but something told me he had the strength to rise above them all.

And Dean? He held the flash drive, thumb rubbing along its length absently as he met my eyes. The hazel I couldn't see that day years ago now seemed branded into my brain. He had shadows as well, deep, dark and painful ones. Then he smiled. Not a smirk or a grin, but a full on eye crinkling, dimple flashing smile. His eyes lit from the inside and I knew the shadows might beat him down, but they'd never beat him. I did the only thing I could and smiled back.

"Thank you both. For everything."

Without waiting for a response, I closed the door behind me and started toward the Camaro waiting across the small parking lot. They'd never know it, but the Winchester family had saved my life for a second time. I tossed the computer case into the back seat and set one foot inside. My eyes flicked up, finding the window instantly. Dean stood in the space between the open curtains, smile dimmed, but still present. Our gazes held for one impossibly long moment before I raised one hand in farewell.

This time he waved back.

* * *

end

* * *

End notes: Before everyone starts asking, "Why didn't John have a shot gun filled with rock salt rounds?" I'll answer it here. In "Hook Man," Dean tells Sam about the special rounds and he's both surprised and impressed with the ingenuity. Now I know it was probably just a writer's device to explain to the viewer why a shot gun would work on a ghost, but I chose to take it as a new idea thought up after Sam left them for Stanford. Otherwise they might have written something to the effect of -

Sam: You have plenty of rock salt rounds, right?

Dean: Nah. I thought I'd use deer slugs this time. (Sam glares) Yes, Dad, I have more than enough.

Sam: Shut up.

That would have clued in the viewer as well as established the fact that Sam knows about them already. If you disagree with me I'd love to hear your reasons. It's always fascinating to see what different people come away with from each episode.

Thanks again for reading!


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